The Mummy's Wrath
by Channel D
Summary: Tim is critically injured in a mission gone wrong, and his family demands answers of NCIS. All drama, no jokes here.
1. Dreaded Meeting

_Disclaimer:_ I own nothing of NCIS.

_Author's note_: Tons of stuff regarding Tim's parents, where they live, and where he grew up have been made up for this story. Do not treat this as canon.

- - - - -

He couldn't see the bad weather here, from inside Autopsy – the cold-as-the-specter-of-death rain and the combative wind that had swept in like an invading army Thursday evening, and was still here, four days later. It wore at all of them: making them fearful in the image of danger that it wore on its hip like a holstered weapon. With so little information coming out, Imagination struggled against Reason to overwhelm them and turn their thoughts to that which was dreaded. Maybe that was why he was hiding out here, so the weather wouldn't see him; wouldn't invisibly snap and bite at him, wouldn't pull him into the pit of despair.

He'd already been there, on its brink, all Friday, all weekend. But it was Monday now, and he had to show up at work. And still the demons in the weather circled the building, howling, howling, howling.

"Jethro, she's here." Jen, on his phone.

"I'm on my way," Gibbs said into his phone, not envying the Director being the first greeter; hearing the tension in her almost whispered words. She must be in her outer office, door closed to the visitor in her inner office, or else in her private bathroom. Afraid to be overheard, in either event. He was about to hang up, but stopped. "Sum her up?"

"Fury," Jenny said simply, and disconnected.

_Fury, _Gibbs mused. _Not_ furious, _but the incarnation of Fury itself. Or else the Furies, the mythological goddesses who avenged victims, sometimes with horrifying brutality. _It was what they would expect; maybe what they deserved. _If it were my child, I would be Fury, too..._

He couldn't hide down here in Autopsy any longer, feigning interest in one of Ducky's long rambles. "Gotta go, Duck. Sorry."

"It won't be as bad as you think, Jethro," the older man said, surprising him. "I'm sure she's as much human as you or I. She's just—"

"Yeah." He took to the elevator; about to face, and relive, a hideous moment.

- - - - -

_They had pounded down the stairs to find just an inch of shoe visible under the rubble. They called Tim's name, over and over, and he didn't respond. There was so much rubble; it was too heavy to move. Gibbs had to finally pull back an almost hysterical Tony, his savagely cut and blistered hands mixing grotesquely lavender-gray with plaster dust up to his elbows, who didn't want to give up digging. _

_The professionals came, those who specialized in rescues, but their work was so slow because they had to be so careful. An hour dragged on, melted agonizingly into two, and though they didn't say it out loud, each of the team members feared that the rescue effort was becoming a recovery._

_Then at last the pros had him free. "He's alive!" said an EMT, but the look on his face was anything but optimistic as the still form, bloody, black and purple and dusty all over, was pulled out; loaded onto a stretcher; initial aid given. Gibbs took out his cell phone, pulled down the directory, then pocketed the phone. _Not yet.

- - - - -

Rain slapped the MTAC windows furiously, perhaps realizing it had found him. Gibbs quickened his pace; aware he'd been dawdling. The rain was thick enough so that the other Navy Yard buildings were just ghosts. It was late morning, yet there was no brightening, no cheer in sight.

Cynthia, Jenny's secretary, gave him a _proceed-with-caution_ look as he entered Jenny's office, but said nothing. He knocked on the inner office door, and opened it when bade to do so.

The woman rose when he came in. Couldn't be out of respect for him; why would she have any at this point? And they were about the same age. No, she must be habitually meeting new people; higher-ups or important visitors, requiring her to stand and formally greet.

Jenny had risen, too; perhaps because the woman had done so. The Director appeared to be calm, but Gibbs could see the tension running through her. And she had out the nice china coffee service – not a good sign. "Mrs. McGee, may I introduce Jethro Gibbs; Tim's supervisor. Jethro, this is Cleo McGee...or do you go by Cleo Hansen?"

It was a subtle attempt at distraction on Jenny's part, but that didn't faze the woman. "Either will do. Hansen is my maiden name, which I still use professionally. I wish we were meeting under other circumstances, Mr. Gibbs—"

"Just 'Gibbs', please. Or 'Jethro'. He said the latter unwillingly, felt he had to because Jenny had called him that and he didn't want to seem standoffish. Not when so much, emotionally, was at stake here.

She projected strength of spirit, this woman who was Tim's mother. On the tall side for a woman, without being tallish; hair a few shades lighter than Tim's, with tiny hints of gray; eyes the same color of summer grass. She wore a long skirt; a shield, perhaps, against the chilly weather – was it as chilly back home for her? –comfortable and practical instead of stylish. But she was attractive in it; perhaps in part because of the power she radiated, coming not just from anger. She must be one who would not suffer fools, and not give a damn about what people thought of her. People at her level, professionally – whatever it was that she did, and Gibbs couldn't remember – often did not.

He shook the hand she offered, but her eyes held no warmth for him. They all sat.

"How is Tim doing today?" Jenny asked. This time, she was not just making conversation; they really wanted to know. No one from NCIS had seen Tim since Thursday, the day of the incident.

"Better," Cleo said simply. "They're sure he'll pull through now. He's making progress. But he still has a long, long way to go..."

She wasn't going to make it easy for them. Gibbs wasn't surprised when Jenny tried another tack. "Tell us about Tim, as a boy."

Cleo thought. "Then I need to tell you about myself, first. I am an atmospheric scientist; a meteorologist –"

"Like on TV?" Jethro asked, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. She hardly seemed the type to be charming TV audiences with cute weather graphics.

"No." There was a naked edge to her voice, as if she'd been asked that innumerable times. "I'm an operational meteorologist, working in research. My specialty is storms. We lived in Oklahoma for several years, until the late 80s, and there I worked with the National Severe Storms Laboratory."

_Ah. A federal employee, like us..._

"Over much of the Midwest, and certainly the Plains states, the sky is an enormous bowl over the earth; humbling. You can see for miles. When he was small, I would take Tim outside and teach him about the clouds, the wind, the rains – my lifelong passions. What the clouds in the sky at the moment would do. How convection makes clouds form. What brings the wind and the rain. What a thunderstorm, a wall cloud, a tornado is about..."

Her eyes softened, just a tad. "He was young. Maybe five, six. And he got the notion that I controlled the weather. It took a long time to disabuse him of that." There might have been a smile there, had she not closed her eyes for a moment.

But Jenny did smile, encouragingly.

_Dang, why am I even here?_ Gibbs thought._ Jenny's so much better at this sentimental crap than I am._

Cleo was already on to another memory. "Tim has a...playful sense of humor, that I've always appreciated. When he was 12 or 13, he started sending me a postcard for Mother's Day. It would always be a picture of a mummy, and on it, he'd always write, 'Happy Mummy's Day!' He's done it every year since; always a different postcard; there are so many at hand when you live near a large city with museums. We both enjoy running gags, and this one is just like him..."

_Why didn't I know that he liked running gags? Why do I feel like I've only known him superficially?_

Jenny's phone rang; the two-beep tone that Gibbs knew meant Cynthia had someone on the line. Jenny picked up the phone, listened a minute, then looked stressed as she addressed them. "Mrs. McGee, I'm so sorry. It's the Secretary of the Navy, something urgent, and I have to take his call. Jethro will be happy to continue this with you, and of course I'd be pleased to see you any time later; just give me an hour or so..."

They were dismissed; Gibbs less than happy to be left alone with a woman who probably wanted to see him eviscerated.

He suggested lunch, and he called in an order of something good from a Thai restaurant; and bribed Tony to watch at the door for the food taxi. Gibbs and Cleo settled in a conference room to wait; soda to keep them going until the food came.

"So...uh, Gibbs...tell me what happened Thursday. How my son almost died on your team's mission."


	2. Risks

_Why hadn't they thought this through, instead of running into the old house, the house with the broken door slightly ajar, just because their suspect had run in? Would they have done the same in an abandoned mine shaft; a dilapidated bridge; a burned-out factory? No, but the house bore no "condemned" sign; no missing walls; no obvious structural damage; it was just an old, long-uninhabited house; a "for sale" sign of unknown vintage rusting in the overgrown lawn; half-hidden by tall weeds. A house is always a home; one judges it to be safe and welcoming – it has to be proven otherwise to be deemed unsafe._

_And the four of them on the team had charged in, from the front and the back; and when finding no one on the first floor, Gibbs, Tony and Ziva had headed to the second floor while Tim was left to double-check closets and such on the first, and then the basement. Sadly and suddenly, the weight of the three of them running on the second floor – of the old termite-ridden house –of the sad, lonely old ,old house, that must have once been where boisterous, happy children laughed and played – part of the second floor, floor and wall, wall including an old chimney, crumbling down to the first floor – gave way. Tony, luckily, jumped away in time to keep from falling in the hole; Tim, directly underneath, was not at all lucky._

- - - - -

"We were chasing a suspect. We didn't know that the house wasn't structurally sound. Had I known –"

"Do you often have your team take such risks. Gibbs?"

_How to answer?_ "We're law enforcement. The job entails some risks. My people have been taught how to keep themselves as safe as possible, and I do look out for them."

"You don't consider them expendable, then?"

He barely stopped himself from slamming his fist on the table. _"Of course not! They are not, and never will be! They –"_

Tony arrived with the food. He saw the looks on their faces and only mumbled, "Pay me back later," then fled.

"I know all about taking risks, Gibbs. I wasn't just some secretary at the NSSL."

He would never have thought she was. Tim's IQ, he knew, was in the stratosphere – no pun intended; Cleo McGee's – Hansen's – appeared to be there, too. He was still of a generation that didn't expect this of women his age, but he eyed her, and guessed: "You were a storm chaser."

"Yes," she said, pride evident in her voice. "From the late 70s until the program largely disbanded in the late 80s. I was a team leader, like you, out there with the younger researchers and the U of O meteorology students, every spring; following the wall clouds and microbursts. Chasing tornadoes, if you will."

"Like in the movie _Twister._"

"Yes, pretty much. We took risks. Calculated risks. Some proved to be more dangerous than others."

"Did you ever see a cow flying through the air?"

Finally, a smile. "No, never a cow. Lots of other debris, though. It was exciting." She wasn't looking at him, but he thought he could see her eyes glowing.

She continued. "By the late 1980s, the program had been going on for about 15 years, and the NSSL had about as much data as could be tracked with today's – well, that day's – level of computers. So it went fallow. When he was old enough to understand, Tim would often worry about me going out on a chase. Like any child growing up in Oklahoma, he had a mixture of fear and fascination of tornadoes. He knew to hit the cellar when the sirens went off. But Kale, that's my husband, and I would tell him Mommy would be all right on her chases; she knew how to stay safe, and it was okay to take risks when you knew what you were doing."

"Is your husband at the hospital today?"

"No, since Tim is improving, he left for home last night. He can't neglect his work for too long. Your phone call, Thursday, stirred him. I don't think I'd ever see him book a flight so fast in his life..."

- - - - -

_The team had raced to the hospital, almost beating the ambulance. Tim was still alive on hitting the emergency room, but Gibbs read the doctors' looks: grim, grim, grim, each face._

_Gibbs pulled out his phone and dialed the number he'd never before dialed; a number stored in its directory for only such a catastrophe. "Hello, Is this Mr. McGee? My name is Jethro Gibbs. I'm calling from NCIS. About Tim..."_

_- - - - -_

_He'd let Tony and Ziva wait there for a few hours with him; then after three, sent them away. He wasn't sure how long it would take the flight to get to Washington; whether they had to change planes anywhere. But he didn't want Tony and Ziva there when the parents arrived; not to add to the tension; not to say the wrong thing. Of course, their suspect had gotten away. "Go back and process the scene," Gibbs had directed Tony and Ziva. "See what you can find."_

_They were astounded. "Gibbs! No!" Ziva cried. "How can we just walk out and leave McGee here?!" Tony was equally adamant. "That's our Probie in there!!"_

"_It has to be done, and it'll keep your minds off this. Maybe." said Gibbs. "I'll wait here, and I'll call you the minute there's news. That's not a _request,_ you two! GO!!"_

_They'd left, but not without throwing baleful looks at him._

- - - - -

_After too many hours – seven, really, but faster than Gibbs had expected – with Tim still in surgery, they appeared. He didn't know for sure it was them, though they seemed about the right age; he'd no idea what they looked like, but something in the way they held themselves, people seemingly shepherded by invisible angels at the edge of their panic; parents who could only look that stunned at the possibility of losing a child._

_The man was tall and broad-shouldered, had black hair (graying at the temples), and wore glasses. Kind of like an older Clark Kent, Gibbs thought, somewhat irrationally. The man's arm was around the woman and Gibbs couldn't see her face at this angle; just saw that she had long light brown hair, worn up in a twist, and her shoulders were hunched. In her hand was a crumpled handkerchief – probably her man's. _

_Gibbs heard the nurse's soft words. "Mr. and Mrs. McGee?"; saw their faint nods. He rose. This was his time to leave. Tim's real family was here, and his coworkers – his friends – had no place, unless invited. _

- - - - -

"We drove out to the house Saturday, while Tim was in treatment. We had to see it for ourselves. Sarah – wouldn't come. She's still a bit shell-shocked."

- - - - -

_Tony had shaken his head as Gibbs walked by his desk on Friday. "Boss, I've tried calling Sarah three times to get an update on the Probie. Three times. She's hung up on me each time."_

"_She's hurting. She blames us. Give her time."_

- - - - -

"Of course we didn't go inside – the house is now marked _condemned_ and there is yellow _caution_ tape all around the property..."

"Mrs. McGee, I swear to you, if I'd had any inkling at all that the house was unsafe..."

"But pursuing criminals is part of your job. If you'd thought it to be a _little_ unsafe, would you have gone in? Sent your team in?"

He shook his head. "I'm no engineer. I can't judge what 'a little unsafe' means in a house. Rotting stairs, or rotting support beams? No. That's off the chart of a calculated risk. Had I known what I know now, we'd have surrounded the house and gotten the suspect to come out somehow."

"But there are other times when your team is in danger..."

"Sure. But the only risks I approve of are the calculated ones."

"That sounds so positive and warm and fuzzy, Gibbs, but I just can't agree. We _can't_ live our lives in fear. The people who make a difference, who make the world a better place or expand our knowledge of the universe are often those who take risks: physical, emotional, social, political. I – Kale and I – did not want our son growing up afraid, growing up unwilling to challenge himself, unwilling to sometimes engage in risky behavior. It's unfortunate enough that he inherited my tendency toward seasickness, and Kale's severe allergy toward poison ivy."

Gibbs had started to clear up the lunch debris, and halted, in sudden realization. "Are you saying—"

She eyed him over the last of her can of Pepsi. "Just what do you _think_ I'm saying?" Her tone was cold.


	3. Calculated Ones

In the squad room, Ziva typed away, but eyed Tony as she did so. "Do you think that was McGee's mother that you saw upstairs with Gibbs?"

"I guess so. Ducky said Gibbs and the Director were to meet with her this morning." Tony barely got the whole sentence out; his mind was elsewhere; he was making no attempt to work.

_Wonder if the McGees are gonna sue the agency?...I wish they'd let us see him, but the orders from Jenny herself are _no, not unless invited, or until the family leaves.

- - - - -

"What I _think, _Mrs. McGee, is that you're actually _encouraging_ Tim to engage in risky business! That's not what I usually expect to hear from a mother!"

"_Of course_ I encourage him to take risks; isn't that what I've been saying?! _Thought-out _risks, preferably. I know you people must make fast decisions; I hope you've been teaching him to make _good_ ones."

Gibbs felt himself starting to relax, finally. "We try. Tim is a little…"

"Impetuous? Reckless, at times? An unfortunate consequence of our urging, I'm afraid."

"But that behavior _could_ get him _killed!_ And _needlessly!"_

She sighed. "Yes. He doesn't talk to us in detail about the cases he works on for NCIS. But I'm not surprised to hear that he's like that...Tim was a shy boy, Gibbs. Some children just are. The risk-taking we grounded him in was a way of challenging him, of giving him confidence."

"That doesn't help if he winds up in a _morgue!" _Gibbs snapped, but immediately cursed himself. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. McGee. That was extremely tasteless of me, considering..."

She had paled a little, but quickly regained her composure. "No, you're right, Gibbs. And I would hope that you'd encourage him to make, er, better decisions than he sometimes does."

Gibbs ran a hand through his hair. "I try. Lord knows, I try."

She looked at her watch. "I told Tim I would be back to see him by 1:30. Care to come with me?"

All the acrimony seemed to be gone from her, and Gibbs had been longing for such an invitation. "Sure."

- - - - -

She smiled wryly as Gibbs pulled his car into the hospital parking garage and they walked into the hospital. The rain had slackened, but the very air was still heavy with humidity. "Eleanor Roosevelt said, _Do one thing every day that scares you._ I want Tim to be scared, a little, every day. I want him to work through this fear, and to triumph. I want him to take risks, and help others when he does. I want him to have the courage to make the world a better place.

"I was livid when I arrived at NCIS today. I came there expecting that NCIS would try to smooth over the house issue, or pass the buck, or even _blame Tim_ for standing where he was when the ceiling collapsed. But none of those things happened. I am impressed, Gibbs; I truly am."

Gibbs smiled, but decided to change the subject. Too much praise weakens a man. "You said you left the Severe Storms Lab in the late 1980s. Where do you work now?"

"I'm with the National Weather Association. We live in North Dakota now; a little off the beaten path for the majority of tornadoes, but we get enough. Mostly, I study linear thunderstorms and tornadogenesis. I'm also part of a Quick Response Team that logs in destruction from fierce tornadoes..." She grinned. "I'll never stop loving storms."

"Do you still chase them?"

"Unauthorized? Oh, yes. Sometimes Kale comes along with me. I'll be driving, Kale will be commenting or reading a map, or else riding with his head out the window for a better view if we're not in rain yet; he's like an old hound dog that way. If Tim happens to be visiting, he'll often come, too. It's a thrill, a rush; like an amusement park ride."

"And your daily dose of doing something that scares you."

She grinned again. "I never thought of it like that, but you're probably right. It works for Kale, Tim, and me. Sarah's her own person, though." Then her tone softened again. "So much of our work these days has to be done with, and certainly logged on, computers. It's hard for me; it requires a lot of background knowledge I don't have; years I spent doing research, and raising two children in between. When Tim visits, I give him a laundry list of computer applications I need, and he either finds them for me or writes the code himself. He's so good with computers, and such a big help to me.

"Kale's also a meteorologist; but his field is physical meteorology, dealing with the study of the transfer of energy in the atmosphere, the formation of clouds, and so on. He's more theory; I'm more hands-on. We both would have loved dearly for Tim to go into the sciences...wouldn't have to have been meteorology...but his age group fell in love with computers. Ah, well; he's doing something he loves.

"I'm so glad he found NCIS, and you, Gibbs. You've helped broaden him. I hope you won't stop encouraging him..."

"...to take risks. _Calculated_ ones, mostly. But risks. To do things that scare him? To the extent that he doesn't get himself killed or maimed, you've got a deal, Mrs. McGee. Tim's a good man. I'm very pleased to have him on my team."

She smiled, genuine warmth this time as she extended her hand. "Call me Cleo, please."

"Cleo. And I'm Jethro."

"Or 'Boss', as Tim says he calls you." She stopped, looked down before they entered Tim's room. "I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot at NCIS. I would have liked to have met his teammates...ah, Tony and Ziva?"

"I'll call them. They'll come right over," Gibbs offered, pulling out his phone at her eager nod. He pocketed the phone a moment later. "It normally takes about ten minutes to get here. So figure they'll be here in five."

She laughed and traced the pattern in the floor tile with one shoe. "I think there was another misunderstanding. We live far from Washington. We know Tim considers you and your team his second family. _Kale and I do, too._ You've done so much for Tim. Please...any time, don't feel shut out. NCIS will be welcome to visit Tim if he's hopitalized, whether we're here or not."

"Thank you." There was nothing more to say than that.

They entered Tim's room. Gibbs felt a twinge at seeing his young team member pale and bandaged in a thicket of tubes. But Tim roused at the sound of footsteps, and smiled at them. "Hi, Mom!... _Boss! You came!"_

"Well, yeah. You've gotta fill out a leave slip, McGee..." Gibbs pretended to search his pockets, while Tim laughed.

"How're you doing, honey?" Cleo asked her son, after kissing a non-bruised spot on his cheek.

But Tim's glance fell to the window, where sun beams were now meandering in. "Look, boss! Did you know my mom controls the weather? _She's brought the sunshine!"_

- The End -


End file.
